Treachery
by Is0lde
Summary: Soap really needs to tell Tom off. SLASH, Soap x Tom. I just had the urge to write something a tad fluffy for a change...


**Title:** Treachery  
**Rating:** PG-13ish, maybe, for language  
**Pairing:** You should know this by now… Soap/Tom  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything. I'm over it.  
**Author's note:** Because Soap really needed to tell him off. You can only have so much torture before the victim has to have his say. I mean, just look at _Measure of Resolve_. If that isn't true evil then I don't know what is. Poor, poor Soap. I almost feel sorry for him.  
…  
But just almost.

For Carro, because her RPS saved me today. Thank you for that, sweets.  
Also for My, because I originally wrote this for her. I hope you like it.

* * *

"Stop that. Tom, fucking stop that, it's not funny…"

Like Tom had ever taken 'no' for an answer. Grinning madly, one eyebrow elevated, he continued running his finger up and down the back of Soap's neck, making him twitch once and again. Soap, anxious to get as far away from Tom as possible without actually having to do something drastic, tried pressing himself up against his side of the sofa.

Unfortunately for him, Tom's sofa was, due to his dismal economical situation, too small for such an action to have any effect whatsoever.

"Stop what?" Tom asked, a mock surprised look on his face. He'd always been quite a talented actor, and of course he was very well aware of that himself.

Soap grunted. "Never mind."

Really, what was the point in telling someone off who never ever listened?

In Soap's defence, it should be stated that he really did try to focus. It wasn't like he enjoyed practically jumping off his seat every time Tom decided to fuck about the way he liked to. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't stop reacting the way he did any more than he could stop breathing, however humiliated it made him feel.

It didn't take more than five minutes, five minutes in which Soap's pulse barely had time to stabilize itself, before Tom got bored again, this time putting his hand as though through mere happenstance on Soap's knee. A sort of half-muffled gasp Soap hated himself for letting out immediately followed his action.  
Tom looked as though he could barely keep from laughing as he said, "Oi! A bit jumpy today, eh, Soap?"

Repressing a thousand and one curses and flaming oaths, Soap gritted his teeth and answered.

"Would you kindly consider keepin' your bloody hands to yourself, Tom?"

"Oooh." Tom removed his hand quickly, feigning a frightened grimace. Then, he grinned again. "Or else you'll what?"

"Or else I'll chop 'em off, does that sound fair to you?"

"That's… really convincing. Yeah, now do Gone With the Wind for me." Tom smirked.

Soap glared back at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means I like it when you're actin' all tough," leered Tom, obstinately putting his hand right back, only a bit higher up. His victim choked on his sarcastic reply and got up from the sofa to escape Tom's caress, breathing like he'd run the Marathon.

"I told you to stop that! Jeez, it's like you've got a fuckin' death wish or something!"

Tom, seemingly unfazed, didn't move an inch. As though he hadn't heard a word Soap had said, or just completely disregarded it, he grinned broadly and took a sip from his glass. "Like you'd actually do anything, anyway."

"What makes you think I wouldn't?"

His cheeks reddened, Soap shifted from foot to foot, finding it hard to balance properly. This might have had something to do with the bottle of whiskey he had finished about a third of out of sheer nervousness. Then again, it probably had more to do with his general feeling of instability.

"Because you like it, that's why," Tom answered, as though the answer was obvious.

"That's funny, 'cause I seem to recall a fair amount of protesting," Soap managed to get out.

"Yeah, well, your mouth's sayin' one thing and your reactions another, so don't give me that crap." Tom put down his glass on the table and rose from his seat, and Soap felt a bit stupid having to look up at him. "What," Tom said amusedly, stepping closer and closer until he was standing right next to him, "are you saying you don't know exactly what I'm talking about?"

And Soap couldn't for his life find one manner of protest that wouldn't sound forced, idiotic, pathetic or all of the above. Like so many times before, he just bit his lip and said nothing. Tom, on his part, took this opportunity to take the last little step that was still keeping them apart, leaned down the way that always made Soap feel so very small, and kissed him resolutely.

Almost automatically, Soap parted his lips and kissed Tom back. Tom's arms enclosed him the second he got response and Soap couldn't even remember anymore what he'd been protesting about; desperately, he pressed himself against Tom and…

He pulled back, freeing himself of Tom's grasp, who looked surprised, completely dumbstruck.

"No," Soap said, hating the way his voice wouldn't keep steady for him. "No! I hate this!"

"You hate what?"

"I hate the way you're always tellin' me what I want or don't want, I hate that you're always runnin' me over like this! I have a will of my own, you know – I'm not your bloody toy, Tom, and I'm not your bitch, so don't treat me like one…"

Words kept forcing their way out of Soap's mouth, and he found no way of stopping them. Everything he'd been thinking and feeling for months surfaced as Tom just stood there, looking at him, perfectly mute and unable to utter a single phrase. The look on his face spoke a thousand words alone, and most of them were confused, surprised and shocked.

"… for fuck's sake, Tom, I never know where I've got you, and I never know if you're gonna snub me or snog me; and you're wondering why I act the way I do and why I'm hesitating every time you make a move? I mean, Jesus, could you possibly be any more daft?"

"Soap…" Tom tried to say something, undoubtedly very clever, but Soap still couldn't stop himself.

"No, you shut the fuck up and listen! Just this once, would you actually listen to what I have to say?"

Tom closed his mouth and just looked at him, waiting for the next verbal punch.

Soap took a second to catch his breath, and sighed. "Look, I'm not gonna get all emotional and pathetic here, but there are just some things you should know. You make me feel like I'm your bitch, Tom, and I just loathe myself more and more every time I let you…" He paused. "All my senses are tellin' me this is completely wrong and degrading, so maybe that means I should just pack my bags and get the fuck out of here, 'cause I know you'll never stop being a fucking bastard. Do you have any idea how pathetic I feel when I always come crawlin' back to you when all you ever do is take advantage of me and then ignore me until you feel like messing with me again? Not once, not ever in, what is it now, five, six months? – not once have you reassured me or even told me I'm worth more to you than last month's garbage. And in spite of that I still keep coming back for more. Why, I don't have a fucking clue. Maybe you've brainwashed me or something."

"You are, you are worth more to me than that," Tom said once he'd assured himself that Soap was through with his little speech. "People have called me a lot of things, and most of 'em have been true, but I don't want you calling me dishonest, so here's as frank as I'll ever be with you: I'm sorry if I treated you like crap, I'm sorry if you think I took advantage of you. If you don't want to do this anymore then just say so and I'll stop." Carefully, slowly, he took a cautious step forward, slid his arms around Soap again, who stood absolutely still, not knowing what to say or what to do anymore, and looked down at him, an uncharacteristically serious look on his face.

Soap met his gaze, and his first impulse was to pull back again, grab his coat and slam the door shut behind him, but for some reason or other, he didn't.  
After a moment, Tom repeated the same procedure as he had a couple of minutes ago, leaning down and kissing his friend, who still didn't move, seemingly putting every effort into slowly and methodically, softly killing every possible argument Soap still might've had.

Soap tried to find something good to say. Something snappy, something sharp enough to puncture Tom's vanity and self-confidence, something that could buy him an easy ticket out of this situation. But nothing came to him.

And somewhere inside of him, unwittingly, he started to let go again. It was just so much easier to give up, give in, than to fight it. And he was tired of fighting and worrying so much, anyway.

Of course this wasn't constructive. It was bound to end in a complete catastrophe. Firstly because what they had and what they did was destructive down to its very core, and secondly because he was committing treachery against himself and every principle he'd ever set up for himself to follow.

But it wasn't like he hadn't done things that were bad for him before. And it actually got easier as time went by; the voices telling him that he should just jump off a cliff and finish the job once and for all were getting weaker and weaker, or just easier to ignore.

"Do you want me to stop?" Tom said, midst kisses, but Soap's closed eyes had to serve as an answer to his question.


End file.
